Wild Thing

… wasn’t just a great song. It was genius. And it was the only thing on earth that Daniel Willards ever blasted on his head phones. Daniel never fancied his own name. He preferred to call himself ‘The Big Woozat,” but he had people call him Wooz for short. Wooz was an inventor, of sorts. At least, he claimed to be. He sat in the back of his van. He called it the Wild Thing, named after the greatest song of all time, of course. Side doors open, letting in the night air, which gently brushed at his hair now and then. His hair was long. It fell down past his shoulders in thick curly locks of bleach. His side burns were thick and dark. His normal hair color, possibly, but no one, even The Wooz himself, knew for sure. His fist clutched an over sized blue pen which hovered over a notebook filled with doodles, scribbles, and his many, many, self proclaimed extravagantly brilliant ideas. He looked out through the rear window, across the vacant parking lot lit only by dim, orange street lights and the fluorescent glow pouring from the nearby Kwik Trip.

Ooohh! Here is comes, here it comes, here it comes!!! He looked up from his paper, eyes closed tight… this was the best freaking song ever… “BUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH, WILD THANG! BUH DUH DUH DUH DUH! YOU MAKE MY HEART SING! BUH DUH DUH DUH DUH! YOU MAKE EEEVERYTHANG! BUH DUH DUH! GROOOOVY!” He loved that part. He took considerable joy in pursing his lips out ward and over articulating the ‘ooo’ sound on groovy. Back to inventing. A few hours earlier he had come up with the greatest Woozat invention ever. It was an airline. But not just any airline, oooh no. This was an air line with hookers! He giggled at the genius. Every single flight attendant was going to be a hooker. He hadn’t come up with a name quite yet. But he had the poster figured out. It was going to be a picture of a barely clothed babe sitting on a bench in front of a huge airplane. And she would have a lollypop. And she would be wet. Soaking wet. And in bright blue letters it would read… “We’ll attend your flight any day.” And the girl would be winking. Excellent…

Then there was a gun shot. “Shit!” Wooz dropped to the floor, and tried to scramble under the backseat. He hated the city. He hated guns. He loved hookers on airplanes… the thought of which made him giggle in delight once more. He slowly rose to his knees, and peered out the window in the direction of the shot. The shot came from the Kwik Trip? Some kid must have tried to pull something. Wait a minute… He turned his head his head toward the dumpster. He could have sworn he saw something move… there! There it is! It moved all the way to the door of the Kwik Trip. As it stepped into the light, he saw it was a dog. Just a stupid… wait a sec… he squinted his eyes, and strained to see the distance. That is a basset hound. That is… that son of a bitch. How the hell did that thing get away again? He crawled through the open space in his van (he had removed the two middle seats for thinking space) toward the little tiny kennel that sat near the front. The cage door sat ajar and nearly hit the Wooz’s face when he swung it around. He looked inside, knowing what was going to be found (or not found). A little blue blanket was crumpled in the back corner, but no dog.

Daniel Willards stepped out of his great blue van into the crisp night air. His orange t-shirt clung snuggly to his slightly rotund body, and the cord that came from the headphones hiding under The Wooz’s hair fell into the side pocket of is disturbingly short blue shorts, snapping into his disc-man that made a significant bulge in the side of his thigh. His other pocket consisted of everything else he needed; his wallet, change, and car keys, so that they too made for another unattractive growth. He wore tennis shoes, and knee high socks that couldn’t quite reach his knees. He reached down and scratched himself before setting after Roscoe.